so, every year on 9/11 when the New York Mets play, the players will wear New York first responder hats instead of their team hats. every player and manager and coach wears a first responder hat. usually we just see either FDNY or NYPD and it can be interesting to analyze the trends between who picks which. however, 9/11 first responders includes more departments that rushed to aid response efforts. one such department that is less commonly seen is the department of sanitation who were crucial in response and especially clean-up efforts. tonight, Luisangel Acuña is wearing a New York Department of Sanitation hat as his chosen first responder department. it’s not the first time a player has chosen the department of sanitation, but it is not common and I love when it happens.
Author: This was a request by a friend. I'm a huge yankees fan but also big soto girly, so enjoy this! I've said before I only take football and f1 request, but I can make exceptions for baseball. ALSO: I might do a pt 2 for this!
Word count: 11.5k
Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, +18.
She had read the email three times before answering it, which was unlike her.
Assignments at The Cut usually came with breezy certainty. Profiles of actors doing "method motherhood," essays about women who'd traded law for ceramics, but this one felt heavier. The Mets had signed Juan Soto, the youngest player to ever earn a contract that read like fiction, and she'd been asked to "find the person beneath the numbers."
She wasn't sure what that meant. She suspected no one was. It surprised her to find out he was actually a year older than her, considering the importance of his new contract which had shifted something in MLB.
The morning of the shoot, Manhattan looked washed clean, the kind of February light that made everything look temporary. Her tote was heavy with a notebook, her small Polaroid camera, and a lens cap she always forgot to remove. She'd promised the photo editor she'd capture some "BTS warmth"—unfiltered shots for the magazine's Instagram—but she knew she'd mostly use the camera as armor.
She rehearsed questions on the cab ride downtown. What do you think about belonging? felt too abstract. How does it feel to be the face of a franchise? sounded like something a man in a suit would ask. She crossed them out on her notes app and typed instead: What does a day off look like?
When the cab slowed outside the Bowery Hotel, she tucked her hair behind her ears, adjusted the scarf she'd chosen precisely because it made her feel like she had taste. Inside, the lobby smelled like wood smoke and old film cameras. She'd been there before, once, for a director's interview—he'd arrived two hours late and drunk—but this felt different. The room upstairs, she'd been told, had floor-to-ceiling windows and red velvet couches.
Upstairs, the door was propped open with a light stand. Voices came from inside—crew chatter, the click of a camera testing its flash, someone laughing in Spanish. She stepped in, smiled quickly, and introduced herself to his publicist, a woman who gave her a warm smile as she walked in.
"He's just finishing wardrobe," she said. "Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty."
She nodded, grateful. She found a corner table near the window and opened her notebook, pretending to reread her notes. Through the glass, she could see a slice of skyline and the roof of a grocery store. A man walked by with a blue Mets cap; she wondered if he realized the team's new star was just ten floors above him.
When the door opened again, the air shifted.
He came in with a kind of quiet confidence that made everyone else unconsciously straighten. No entourage, just one handler trailing behind with a garment bag. He wore a white T-shirt and track pants, no jewelry yet, headphones still around his neck.
"Juan, this is The Cut's writer. She's the one profiling you." his publicist said, motioning to her.
He looked over and smiled, the sort of smile that wasn't practiced but knew it worked. "Hey," he said. "Nice to meet you." His accent carried the soft roundness of Spanish spoken every day.
She stood, shaking his hand. "Thanks for doing this," she said, too quickly.
"My pleasure," he replied, easy, his voice low. "They told me you are the one who talks about people's apartments."
She laughed before she could stop herself. "Sometimes," she said. "But I promise I won't ask about your closet."
He grinned. "Good. It's a mess."
The photographer called him toward the backdrop, and the small world of the shoot began to spin. Assistants adjusted light reflectors; someone misted water on his hair; he slipped into a crisp cream-colored shirt that made his skin look sun-lit even indoors.
She stayed mostly at the edges, watching. The Polaroid camera hung loosely from her wrist. Every so often she lifted it and caught a candid. Him adjusting his sleeve, laughing at something in Spanish with the stylist, eyes down as he checked a message.
He seemed different from the images she'd seen online. Calmer. More contained.
"Can I take one?" she asked when the main camera paused to reload memory cards.
He turned toward her, curious. "One?"
"For the behind-the-scenes piece. Just... don't pose."
He tilted his head slightly. "Then what do I do?"
"Just look how you were looking a second ago."
He did, and she clicked the shutter. The Polaroid slipped out with its soft mechanical hum. She fanned it gently, watching his expression appear—the faint half-smile, the edge of sunlight hitting his shoulder.
He leaned closer. "That's fast," he said. "Can I see?"
She handed it to him, their fingers brushing. "It still needs a minute," she said.
He looked at the half-developed image. "You make everyone look good?"
"Only if they're easy to photograph."
He laughed softly. "So I'm lucky, then."
The crew shifted again, breaking whatever had hung between them. The stylist called him back. She turned her attention to her notes, pretending to rewrite a question. But her pen hovered over the page, unmoving.
During the next setup, she sat near the monitor where the photographer reviewed frames. Juan moved easily in front of the camera—confident, occasionally playful—but there was a restraint that made him more interesting. When the photographer asked for a smile, he gave something quieter, like a secret.
"You can tell he's used to being looked at," the photographer murmured beside her.
She nodded. "And he knows exactly how much to give."
At one point, he caught her watching and lifted an eyebrow, as if to say caught you. She looked down, but she felt her face warm.
When the session broke for wardrobe change, he walked toward the refreshment table. "You want coffee?" he asked her over his shoulder.
"I'm okay," she said, surprised.
"I'm getting one anyway."
He poured two cups, handed her one without asking how she took it. "You can fix it," he said.
"Thanks." She took a sip—it was perfect, somehow.
He leaned against the table, stirring his own with a wooden stick. "You ever write about baseball before?"
"No," she admitted. "This is my first time covering an athlete."
"Then you start with the best," he said, smiling again.
"Confident."
"Truthful."
She shook her head. "I'll be the judge."
"Okay," he said lightly. "Be fair, though."
She was about to reply when someone called him back under the lights. He winked—small, quick, not performance, just acknowledgment—and went.
Her coffee had gone cold by the time the last shot finished.
By the time the photographer began packing her gear, the suite had quieted. The crew's chatter faded into the hallway, replaced by the soft buzz of the city below. Afternoon light spilled through the windows, a pale gold that made the room feel almost cinematic.
He was sitting on the edge of the couch now, scrolling through his phone, one leg bouncing absently. His handler was speaking low into another call near the door, already coordinating his next thing — something about media availability at Citi Field.
She looked up from her notes. He glanced at his handler, who gave a subtle nod, then back at her. She nodded and set her recorder on the coffee table, adjusting it until the red light blinked steady. "It's not formal," she said. "You can just... talk."
"I can do that," he said.
For a moment, neither spoke. She thought of the notes she'd written in the cab — the polished questions that suddenly felt wrong, too polished. So she tried something simpler.
"You know... given the circumstances around your signing, do you ever get tired of people talking about money?"
His laugh came easily, but not dismissively. "Every day," he said. "But it's part of it. I understand."
She waited.
He leaned back, exhaling. "People like to count what's not theirs. I can't change that." Then, after a beat: "But I like to think I earned it."
The way he said it wasn't arrogant; it was matter-of-fact. She studied him — the small scar near his jaw, the way he held eye contact without needing to fill the silence.
"You did," she said finally. "Statistically, anyway."
He smiled, a real one this time. "You know baseball?"
"Enough to embarrass myself at a dinner party," she said. "But I do follow soccer. Specifically Real Madrid religiously, if that gives me any credibility."
His eyebrows rose, amused. "Ah, so you like winning teams."
She laughed. "Apparently."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Who's your favorite?"
"In Madrid?"
He nodded.
She hesitated. "Kroos and Modrić, but one retired and the other won't stay longer at the club." she said, maybe too quickly.
He laughed again, this time softer. "The quiet ones."
"Exactly."
"I like them too," he said. "They always make it look easy, although I don't watch much soccer."
It was strange, how easy this felt... not like an interview, but something more elastic, stretching between them. The kind of rhythm that didn't need to be forced.
"What about you?" she asked. "Who do you like watching?"
"In baseball?"
"Or life."
He thought for a moment. "In baseball... there was always Cano, when I was younger. He made it look beautiful. But in life..." He paused, tilting his head. "My mom. Always her."
She smiled. "That's the right answer."
"It's the true one."
He said it simply, without needing to explain.
She looked down at her notebook, though she hadn't written a single thing since he started talking. She wasn't sure why she didn't want to break the spell of just listening.
When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. "Do you ever feel lonely here?"
He seemed surprised by the question. Not offended, just that she'd asked it.
"Sometimes," he said. "New York is big. Loud. Everyone wants to be seen. I just want to play."
She nodded, and for a second, he looked at her like he could tell she understood.
The recorder's red light blinked steadily.
"Do you miss home?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "Every day. The food. The noise. The sun. The people saying good morning for real, not because they have to."
She laughed. "That's fair."
He studied her a moment. "You from here?"
"I grew up midtown, mostly. I would walk around central park almost every day considering it was so close to our house."
"I like that."
"Do you like walking around the park? Or is it one of the things you can't do anymore"
"Sí," he said, smiling. "I enjoy it, and usually people don't approach me that often, anyways."
Something about the word in his accent stayed in her chest. She tried not to show it, adjusting the angle of the recorder instead.
He looked at the Polaroid she'd left on the table — the one she'd taken earlier. "You're keeping that one?"
"I was going to give it to you," she said.
He shook his head. "You keep it. You made it."
She hesitated. "Okay."
The light shifted again, more gold now, hitting the wall in long, soft stripes. She felt it move across her face, warming her cheek.
"Do you like doing this?" he asked.
"Interviews?"
He nodded.
"Sometimes," she said. "When people forget they're being interviewed."
He smiled, slow and knowing. "Like me right now?"
"Maybe."
"Good," he said quietly.
There was something about the way he looked at her when he said it; steady, curious, not forward but not neutral either. She wondered if it was practiced, that disarming calm. Somehow she doubted it.
Outside, a siren flared, then faded. She reached to stop the recorder, but he beat her to it, gently pressing the button before she could.
"Off the record," he said.
She blinked. "Okay."
He leaned back again, less formal now. "So tell me... what do you like about Real Madrid?"
She laughed, relaxing a little. "You really want to know?"
"I asked."
She smiled. "I like the control. The discipline. The way they play and the philosophy behind the club about winning and that nothing is impossible. You ever heard of the '90 minuti en el bernabéu son molto longo'? It's true."
He nodded. "You sound like a coach." He laughed. "I asked because I don't know many people who watch soccer, and certainly not like you. I do enjoy Barcelona more."
"Well. I'm just a fan who overanalyzes things." she sighed. "And allow me to say, that's quite the bad taste you've got for soccer."
He studied her for a second, thoughtful. "I get that," he said. "And I mostly like them because of the time when Messi was there. But I understand my club choice is disturbing to you."
Her heart did a small, quiet thing she couldn't explain. She did laughed at the way he worded it.
"Something like that," she said. "Maybe one day you experience going to a champions league night at the bernabéu."
The recorder stayed off after that. Their conversation slipped into smaller things. New York food, weather that didn't make sense, his disbelief that people still jogged in the snow. She found herself laughing more than she meant to, her voice softer, the room lighter.
He asked about her work in the same curious way he'd answered hers; genuinely, as if the details mattered. "You like writing about people?"
"I think I like watching people," she said. "Writing just lets me make sense of it later."
He nodded, understanding. "That's the same with baseball. You watch everything! Pitcher's hand, outfield wind. You don't know why until later."
She smiled. "Maybe we do the same thing, then."
He tilted his head. "You think?"
"You read patterns," she said. "I read people."
His grin was quiet, almost proud. "Entonces, you're good at your job."
"Sometimes," she said, though she felt the words in her throat like a pulse.
His publicist returned, checking the time, and the room shifted again, reality reentering. "We have to go soon," he said.
Juan nodded, but his eyes stayed on her. "Five minutes?"
She shrugged, already half out the door.
She began gathering her things, sliding the Polaroid into her notebook, capping her pen. "Thank you for doing this," she said. "For being—" she hesitated, "—honest."
He smiled, tucking his phone into his pocket. "You make it easy."
She felt something in her stomach tighten—not discomfort, exactly, but recognition.
The silence stretched a little. He reached for his coffee cup and saw hers still half full. "Cold now?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He lifted it anyway, tossed the rest back, grimaced slightly. "You really take it without sugar?"
She nodded. "Makes me feel like I have discipline."
He laughed, the sound low, a little warm. "You don't need discipline. You already got control."
She looked at him, startled by how naturally the words landed. "That's what you think?"
He shrugged. "That's what I see."
Something in the air thickened again, invisible but real. She caught the faint smell of his cologne—clean, woodsy, understated. She told herself to look away, to focus on her notes, but her eyes didn't move.
The photographer's assistant reappeared to collect the last reflector. "We're clear," she said.
Juan nodded, still half turned toward her. "You walking out?"
She shook her head. "I'm staying to send the editor some photos."
He adjusted his jacket. "I'll see you around, then."
"Probably not," she said, trying to make it sound light.
"Maybe yes," he said with a grin.
It should've been nothing—an automatic line, the kind of casual charm people like him could throw away without thinking. But his tone wasn't careless. It carried the faintest suggestion of possibility, unspoken but present.
He moved toward the door, the publicist following. She felt the absence of his voice almost immediately, as if the air had thinned. She sat back down, letting herself exhale.
Through the window, the city had turned to early evening. Traffic hummed below, and in the glass, she saw her own reflection layered against the skyline. For a moment, it felt like she'd stepped out of her own routine into someone else's story.
She picked up the Polaroid again. The print had settled into clarity now—the small lift at the corner of his mouth, that impossible ease. She slipped it into the pocket of her notebook instead of the pile meant for the magazine.
Her phone buzzed: a message from the editor asking for updates. She typed quickly—Interview done. Photos turned out well. Will send notes tonight.
But when she closed her laptop, she didn't leave. The room was quiet now, just the faint hum of the heater and the slow dimming of light. She stared at the space he'd occupied—his cup, the crease in the couch where he'd leaned forward, the slight imprint of a presence that had already become memory.
She thought of what he'd said—about control, about not wanting chaos—and wondered if he'd meant her as much as himself.
When she finally stood, her legs felt a little unsteady, though she wouldn't have admitted it. She took one last look around, slung her tote over her shoulder, and headed for the elevator.
Downstairs, the Bowery lobby was busier, voices mingling with the faint sound of a piano. She passed a couple arguing quietly near the bar, a woman in a red coat checking her phone, a group of men laughing too loudly. For a second, she thought she saw him outside near the valet, but when she looked again, he was gone.
Outside, the air was cold enough to sting. She walked east toward Lafayette, her camera bumping gently against her hip.
That night, she uploaded the photos. The shots were clean, elegant—the kind of images that felt inevitable. But the Polaroid she'd kept for herself stayed face down on her desk, the edges already curling slightly.
A few days later, she opened her laptop to start the draft, the words came slower than usual. Every paragraph felt like she was trying to disguise something she didn't yet understand. She described his composure, his confidence, the sense that he occupied space without demanding it. She wrote about the way he spoke of his mother and his family, how his upbringing has shaped the way he thinks, the small pauses before answering, the ease with which he carried the weight of being known to everybody.
She avoided adjectives like charming or warm—too obvious. But she left the details that mattered: the way the afternoon light had hit his shoulder, the coffee untouched, the sound of his laughter breaking the silence.
At midnight, she stopped. She read the piece once, made small corrections, then sent the draft to her editor with the subject line: Profile: Juan Soto / The Stillness of Motion.
When she closed her laptop, the apartment felt unusually quiet. She poured a glass of water, left it untouched on the counter, and sat by the window. The city pulsed below, half-asleep. Somewhere, a siren cut through and disappeared.
The profile had gone live on a Wednesday morning, framed by the kind of headline that made her cringe: The Stillness of Motion: Juan Soto Is Ready for New York. It had done well by being retweeted by sports writers, Mets fans, pulled into podcast segments about "athletes who transcend stats." Her editor called it elegant; her parents —who lived in Miami and barely knew anything about current baseball— texted her a screenshot with three clapping emojis.
While sending a couple of emails, her phone buzzed once. An unknown number.
For a second, she thought it might be a mistake. But when she opened the message, it read:
This is Juan. The photo you took—it's good. You made me look peaceful. That's not easy.
She stared at the screen, surprised by the simplicity of it. Then another message came:
Next time there's a Madrid game, tell me. I want to understand what you see.
She smiled, almost involuntarily. The Polaroid lay facedown beside her laptop. She turned it over, held it in her hand, and looked at it until the city lights blurred behind it.
The next day, she had a busy day running errands and meeting up with a close friend from college. They hadn't seen each other in months, so they walked around the west village while shopping.
After a whole day together, she walked into a trader joe's to get some things. While picking out some fruits a kid, wearing a Mets cap, stood next to her trying to reach for a pack of apples. She found him endearing.
"Here you go, little man." She said smiling at him. The cap
"Thanks."
"No worries. By the way, nice cap! Got a favorite player?" She asked politely.
"Lindor. But I can't wait to see Soto play." He said before walking away. She thought it was a nice coincidence to hear his name in such a random context.
She was already in bed with a sheet-mask on, until his name appeared in her messages again. The notification startled her awake. Unknown number. But she recognized the cadence immediately.
Hey. My mom read your story tonight. She believes you made me sound calmer than I am.
She stared at it for a minute, unsure whether to smile or be thrown off. Then she typed, deleted, typed again.
Maybe you were calmer than you thought.
The dots blinked for a long time.
Maybe you're right. Anyway—thank you. For writing it the way you did.
You're welcome.
She expected that to be the end. Instead:
Where do you live?
She hesitated. It was simple enough a question, but it carried something quieter beneath it.
Tribeca. Why?
I'm in the city this week. Thought you might want to see if I really am that calm in person.
She exhaled slowly, the corners of her mouth lifting despite herself. Her journalistic integrity said she shouldn't. But curiosity said maybe she should.
She laughed into the empty room, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Where?
Balthazar. Tomorrow, if you're free. Late lunch.
Deal.
The next day was unreasonably bright for March. The city had shaken off its grayness, and she felt almost conspicuous walking through the Meatpacking District, her notebook shoved into her bag even though she'd promised herself she wasn't treating it like work.
The place smelled like polished wood and espresso. The hostess knew his name immediately—of course she did—and guided her to the table.
He was already there, sitting near the window with a glass of water, sunglasses on the table. He looked different out of the professional context—more at ease, maybe a little less deliberate.
"Hey," he said when he saw her, standing to greet her. "You came."
"You thought I wouldn't?" She teased.
"No. But I was still thinking you probably had work." he said, smiling.
She sat, adjusting her bag on the chair. "I wasn't sure this was a good idea, but you had already asked me so I was clearly going to come."
"It's just lunch," he said. "No recorder, right?"
"No recorder," she chuckled after the joke.
He grinned. "Then we're safe."
A waiter appeared. He ordered quickly—in Spanish, half out of habit—and she caught herself smiling at the way his tone softened. He noticed. "You understand?"
"A bit," she said. "Enough to know you just ordered two coffees."
He laughed. "I didn't want you to fall asleep."
"I wasn't planning to."
They sat in an easy silence while the drinks arrived. The city outside the window moved in reflections—yellow taxis, light on glass, the pulse of a place that never stopped performing.
"So," she said finally, "why me?"
He looked at her, puzzled.
"You could have picked anyone to have lunch with."
"Maybe I liked the way you saw things," he said simply. "You wrote about baseball like it was an artform. No one does that."
She smiled. "I don't know how else to see it."
He leaned back. "Most people look for noise. You looked for pauses."
She blinked. "I didn't think anyone noticed."
"I did."
There was no flirtation in his tone, just truth. And somehow that was worse—more intimate.
They talked about nothing and everything after that. Music, travel, food. He told her about trying to cook arepas in his New York apartment and nearly setting off the smoke alarm. She told him about the time she got lost in Madrid and ended up at a flamenco bar alone.
"And mind you, this was really late at night. So I ended up dining a sauvignon blanc and some tapas." She explained.
"You go there often?" He asked.
"Kinda. My parents have a house there but it's in the outskirts of the city, so I didn't really know how to go back that night." She explained. "Have you been there?"
"No. With the baseball season, sometimes is hard to go overseas. Every time i'm done here, I usually go back home with my siblings." He said.
"One of my friends from college grew up there. We went for her birthday a few years ago, I couldn't believe how gorgeous La Romana is." She said remembering how special that trip was, specifically since it was right after their graduation.
"It is. I have a place there, but I like staying in Punta Cana because it's mostly where my parents feel more comfortable." He explained. "Your parents live here?"
"No. The moment I went to California for college, they moved to Miami." She said. "I grew up between here and Miami but, with my mom having colombian and venezuelan family, naturally they preferred Florida."
"Oh, so you understand spanish then." He teased.
"I do. Even if I haven't been in any of those two countries since I was a kid." She said. "I just feel my accent is a bit odd."
"Well, most of the people in this country can't even understand their own language." He joked.
He listened like few people did—attentive without interrupting, laughing at the right parts, asking questions that didn't sound like filler.
At one point, the sun slipped through the glass, cutting a diagonal across the table. He reached to adjust the curtain but stopped when he saw her hand resting near the light, the edge of her sleeve glowing faintly.
"Sorry," he murmured, withdrawing.
"It's fine."
Neither moved for a second. Then he cleared his throat. "So—Real Madrid still winning?"
"Always," she said, grateful for the escape. "Why? You keeping track? We signed Mbappé this past summer. He's kind of our Soto signing."
"Funny." He said chuckling. "I told one of the guys in the clubhouse about your love for them because his wife is spanish. He said you sound like the average obsessed spanish fan."
She laughed. "Tell him he's right."
He smiled. "I already did."
The coffees cooled between them. The conversation stretched thin, not from discomfort but from something that felt like gravity—slow, mutual awareness.
He'd asked her once, during the interview, if she liked writing about people. Now he seemed to be trying to learn her the same way she'd studied him—by watching the pauses, the small hesitations before she spoke.
"So what about you?" he asked after the waiter cleared their plates. "You always knew you wanted to write?"
She smiled faintly. "Since I was a kid. I used to rewrite the endings of books when I didn't like them."
He laughed. "Control again."
She rolled her eyes. "Maybe I just wanted everyone to make better choices." She laughed. "I used to devour books, to the point that my Dad refurnished my old play room to become a small personal library. It was my birthday gift when I was eleven."
"Nice. So, do I do good in assuming your apartment is full of books?" He asked.
"Yes. They're organized in my living room. Perhaps the thing I was the proudest of when I moved in." She smiled. "Is there anything you loved growing up that is now part of your house?"
He sat back, turning the spoon slowly between his fingers. "I guess bats." He laughed. "My mom says I used to hit bottle caps with a stick before I could walk straight. She thought I'd break a window before I'd ever play baseball."
"Did you?"
"I broke a few," he said, smiling. "Then I started hitting farther. Problem solved."
She laughed. "So you've always been stubborn."
"Persistent," he corrected. "There's a difference."
She studied him across the table—his ease, the way his hands moved when he spoke, steady and deliberate. "You know, most people with your kind of fame talk about what it took to get there. You don't."
"I don't like talking about myself too much," he said. "I like to keep my life as private as possible."
"Understandable." She replied.
"I know you get it." he said, eyes warm.
She felt that familiar flicker in her chest again. Not attraction exactly—something slower, more measured. The awareness of being seen without needing to perform.
He gestured toward her camera bag. "You still take those little pictures?"
"Polaroids?" He nodded.
"Sometimes. I like that they can't be edited."
He smiled. "You trust the moment."
"I guess."
"Take one now," he said suddenly.
"What?"
"Go on. You have it with you, right?"
She hesitated, then reached for it. The waiter glanced over, amused. Juan leaned back, resting his chin on his hand.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Always."
The camera clicked; the square slid out with its soft hum. He watched her shake it gently.
"Does it come out better if you smile?" he asked.
"Not necessarily."
He grinned anyway. "Then I smiled for nothing." He added. "Let me take one of you. It's only fair."
She shyly nodded as he took the camera on his hands. She chuckled as he seemed to struggle with how tiny it was compared to his big hands.
"You gotta just push the button next to the lens."
"I got it!" He said.
"Okay! Do I smile?" She asked.
"If you want."
She hesitated for a moment, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before resting her chin in her hands. She pressed her palms lightly against her cheeks but, instead of looking at the camera, she looked at him.
Once he took the picture, he set the camera down with a grin. When the picture began to appear, he set it on the table between them. He looked down at it, the edges still hazy. "I bet you look better than me. But I gotta say, In mine I look happier than I felt this morning," he said.
She tilted her head. "Bad day?"
"Just long. Noise. Cameras. Questions."
"More interviews?"
"Too many." He looked at her. "This one's better."
She smiled, unsure what to say to that.
The light outside softened; shadows slipped up the buildings. People came and went around them, but their table stayed untouched by hurry.
"You ever think about leaving New York?" he asked.
"Sometimes," she said. "But then I remember I'd miss it. Even when it's unbearable."
He nodded. "That's how I feel about the game."
She looked up. "So you don't love it all the time?"
"No one loves something all the time," he said. "You love what it makes you, not what it costs you."
She scribbled the sentence in her mind without meaning to. Old habit.
He caught her expression. "Don't write that down," he said, smiling.
"Was I that obvious?"
"A little."
"I'll keep it off the record."
"Good."
He drained the last of his coffee and glanced toward the door, reluctant. "I have to head to the stadium soon."
"More noise?"
"Always." He paused, then added, "But this—" he gestured vaguely between them—"was quiet. I needed that."
She looked down, fingers brushing the edge of the Polaroid. "Me too."
He stood, sliding his chair back. "You walking out?"
She nodded and gathered her things. Outside, the afternoon had cooled into that early-evening blue that makes the city look newly invented. They walked in step down Ninth Avenue.
He wore a Mets cap pulled low; it didn't help much. People still looked, some whispering, some too polite to ask for a picture. He ignored them, focused on her.
"You ever get used to that?" she asked.
"Never," he said. "But I'm good at pretending."
At the corner, where their paths split—hers east toward her car, his toward the SUV waiting at the curb—he stopped.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
"Thanks for asking."
He hesitated, as if something else was forming behind the words. Then he simply nodded. "I'll send you the photo back if it turns out bad."
She smiled. "You won't."
He grinned, stepped back toward the car, and raised a hand in goodbye before the door shut.
She stood there a second longer than necessary. Before heading to her car, she wanted to look at the polaroid to see how it had turned out. As she turned it back, she realized he left with hers.
She didn't go home right away. Instead, she walked without thinking, letting the grid pull her east. The air carried that faint metallic smell that meant spring was close. She stopped by a record store on a corner she didn't recognize, drifted through the aisles, touched the edges of album sleeves she wouldn't buy.
When she was finally in her car, the evening had fallen. She drove, replaying fragments of the afternoon: the way he'd said to trust the moment, the line about loving what something makes you, not what it costs. She tried to remember if she'd smiled too much, if she'd asked enough questions to seem casual.
Her phone buzzed once in her coat pocket.
Made it to the field. Thanks for the coffee.
She read it twice before answering.
Anytime. Good luck tonight.
He didn't respond right away, and she didn't expect him to. But when she stopped at a red light, another message appeared.
I kept your photo. Is it okay?
Of course. I've got yours anyways.
Keep it. Don't post it anywhere. It feels... personal.
It is, she typed, then hesitated and deleted it.
I won't. Promise.
No reply came after that.
At home, she poured herself a glass of wine, set her bag on the table, and pulled the Polaroid from her notebook. The image had finished developing. He looked relaxed, shoulders tilted toward her, half-smile like he'd just heard something worth keeping.
She set it against the lamp base, the small square of light inside the bigger one.
The next morning, the city was gray again. She wrote for most of the day—deadlines, edits, sentences that refused to work—and by evening she felt that mild ache of having lived entirely in her head. She shut her laptop, made dinner, and tried not to think about why she kept glancing at her phone.
By the weekend, the Mets' season opener dominated the news cycle. His face was everywhere again: billboards, ESPN clips, slow-motion highlights of batting practice. She watched a few seconds muted on her phone before scrolling away.
The next Sunday she met her friend Camila for brunch in Fort Greene. Camila was a photographer —blunt, funny, the kind of friend who noticed things before you said them.
"You've been quiet," Camila said as they waited for coffee.
"Just work." She said while searching for something in her bag.
"Liar."
She laughed softly. "It's complicated."
"That's a yes."
"There's someone I interviewed," she said after a pause. "It was supposed to be one story."
"And?"
"And it's not, apparently."
Camila studied her. "He texted you."
"Yeah."
Camila leaned back, smiling. "You know what you're doing, right?"
"Probably not."
"Good," Camila said. "That's how the good stories start."
Later, walking home through the park, she thought about that—how stories didn't always announce themselves, how sometimes they just unfolded quietly, asking to be noticed.
That night she fell asleep early, the kind of deep sleep that comes only after you've convinced yourself you've stopped waiting.
Around midnight, her phone lit up again.
We won tonight.
I saw. Congrats.
It felt different.
How so?
Don't know. Maybe because I kept thinking about how quiet lunch was the other day.
She stared at the message, half-asleep, unsure what he meant or if he even knew.
Quiet can be good.
Yeah. I like good.
Then another pause.
You going to any games this season?
Maybe. Haven't decided yet.
Let me know when you do.
The next morning, sunlight broke through her blinds. She reread their exchange with that faint, half-ashamed smile of someone realizing something had already begun.
The Polaroid still sat by the lamp. She turned it face-down this time, as if privacy could protect it. But she left it where it was.
For the rest of the week, life returned to its rhythm—meetings, edits, car rides, dinners that felt too quiet. Yet somewhere between them, the messages continued: small, ordinary things. A photo of a sky before practice. A question about her favorite Madrid match. Once, a simple buenos días at 6 a.m. that she saw hours later and couldn't bring herself to ignore.
None of it was overt, nothing anyone else would read as flirtation. But there was a cadence now, familiar and steady, like learning the first verse of a song.
By Friday, she caught herself checking the Mets' schedule before checking her email.
And when the first warm evening of spring arrived, she stood on her balcony with the city humming below and thought of something he'd said at Balthazar, that he liked how she saw pauses.
She smiled to herself, realizing she was in one now. The kind that holds its breath before something shifts.
She hadn't planned to go. The idea came late. An idle scroll through the Mets schedule, the kind of impulse that feels harmless until it isn't. It was a Thursday, the sky clear over the city, and she told herself she just wanted to see what a night game felt like in person. That was all.
An hour before first pitch she typed a short message, thumb hovering before sending:
Might be there tonight. No promises.
She didn't expect an answer, not right away. By the time she'd put on her jacket and locked her apartment door, the train was already rumbling toward Queens. The city outside the window folded into reflections: neon, dark glass, the faint glow of a skyline she never got used to.
Her phone buzzed.
Section?
She smiled despite herself.
Don't know yet. Got a cheap one. I'm going through gate 6.
You'll be moved.
What does that mean?
Just watch.
When she reached Citi Field, the air smelled like pretzels and cold beer. Everything pulsed with light—the crowd, the music, the crackle of anticipation that only sports seemed to hold. She scanned her ticket at the gate, half expecting a security guard to stop her.
"Ma'am," a voice said as she stepped through.
Her heart stuttered.
But it was just an usher, smiling. "You've been upgraded. Field level. Section 110."
She blinked. "Sorry! What?"
He checked a note on his device. "Guest of the team. Enjoy the game."
She almost laughed. "Of course," she muttered, shaking her head.
The new seat was close enough to smell the grass when the wind shifted. She sat, still slightly dazed, and texted him:
You didn't have to do that.
Didn't want you too far away.
The field stretched before her, luminous under the lights. The crowd's roar rose and fell like waves, but her focus tunneled toward the right-field line where he stood during warm-ups. He looked larger than he had in the hotel suite, movements sharper, deliberate. Under the stadium glow his uniform almost shimmered, the white edges too bright to be real.
When he glanced toward the stands—just a sweep of the eyes more than a search—she told herself he wasn't looking for her. But a heartbeat later, his gaze caught, held, and the corner of his mouth lifted before he turned back to the field.
She felt ridiculous for smiling back.
The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers; the first pitch cracked through the air like punctuation. The game moved in bursts: shouts, music, the thrum of energy each time he stepped to the plate. She'd read about focus before, the way athletes tuned out the world, but seeing it was different. He seemed both entirely present and unreachable.
Around her, fans shouted at an umpire's call; someone behind her spilled beer; a kid waved a foam finger so large it blocked half her view. Yet somehow the noise faded to background. She watched him round first after a line drive single, sliding his helmet off with that effortless self-assurance she'd tried to describe once in an article.
By the sixth inning, the air had cooled. She found herself tracing the rhythm of his movements, the quiet between plays, the way he adjusted his gloves with a kind of ritual care. When he looked up again—just briefly—she knew he saw her. The distance didn't matter; recognition carried.
In the seventh, he hit a double. The crowd surged to its feet, chanting his name in syllables that bounced off concrete. He stood at second, hands on hips, eyes sweeping the stands again. For a fraction of a second, she swore he looked her way.
When it ended—Mets 5, Cardinals 3—the crowd thinned slowly, satisfied. She lingered, not sure what to do next, clutching the blanket like an excuse. The lights stayed bright while the field emptied.
Then her phone buzzed once more.
Wait near the east tunnel.
Am I allowed?
You will be.
She made her way through the corridors beneath the stands, the hum of vending machines mixing with the echo of footsteps. Security waved her through without question. The air smelled faintly of turf and detergent, the aftertaste of adrenaline still hanging in it.
At the end of the tunnel, near a door marked Authorized Personnel Only, she stopped. A maintenance cart rumbled past; somewhere, a radio played a love song distorted by static.
She waited, trying not to overthink the absurdity of standing alone under a ballpark in borrowed privilege.
Then he appeared, baseball cap backward, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired but bright.
"You made it," he said.
"You told me to wait."
He smiled. "You follow instructions well."
He looked different up close—less like the polished version from headlines and more like someone who'd just run out of adrenaline. Sweat darkened the edge of his hoodie; his voice was hoarse from yelling across the outfield.
"Good game," she said, keeping her tone even.
He smiled a little. "You think?"
"You doubled in the seventh."
"Could've been a triple."
"Always unsatisfied."
He laughed softly. "You sound like my hitting coach."
They stood there for a moment, neither quite knowing what to do with the space between them. Down the hall, a door clanged shut; the sound carried, metallic and brief.
"You didn't have to get me the upgrade," she said finally.
"I wanted to," he replied. "You'd come all the way out here—you shouldn't sit where you can't see."
"I could see fine."
"Not from there." His eyes held hers for a second too long. "Anyway, now I know where to look."
She folded her arms, trying not to show what that did to her pulse. "You shouldn't have been looking."
"I can multitask," he said. "Focus and glance."
She laughed despite herself. "That's not a skill, it's a risk."
"Worth it."
Someone walked past—a trainer with a clipboard—and Juan stepped aside to let him through. When the hall was empty again, the quiet returned heavier, like a curtain falling.
He leaned against the wall, one sneaker pressed flat to the concrete. "You still writing all night like before?"
"Trying not to. I'm supposed to sleep like normal people."
"How's that going?"
"Badly."
He smiled. "Same."
For a while, neither spoke. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead; somewhere water dripped steadily into a drain. She found herself watching his hands again, how still they were now compared to the kinetic blur they'd been on the field.
He noticed. "What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just—different seeing you after the game. You look... quieter."
"That's the part no one writes about."
"I might."
He raised an eyebrow. "Off the record?"
"Maybe."
He grinned. "Then you can write anything."
The air between them shifted. Small, perceptible. Not romantic yet, not spoken, but threaded with recognition.
He looked past her toward the open door that led to the parking lot. "You want to see the field?"
"Is that allowed?"
He shrugged. "Technically? No. But everyone's gone."
She hesitated, then nodded.
He pushed the door open; cool night air poured in. The stands were mostly dark now, just a few sections lit by work lights. The diamond stretched out before them, impossibly green even in shadow.
They walked out along the edge of the warning track. She could hear her own footsteps against the gravel. The scoreboard still glowed faintly, showing the final score like a memory that refused to fade
"You ever been on a field like this?" he asked.
"Never this empty," she said.
"It's better that way."
He stopped near the dugout, hands in pockets, eyes on the outfield. "After a win, it feels like the world's still moving, but slower. Like the city hasn't realized the game's over."
She nodded. "That's beautiful."
He smiled. "You'll steal it for a headline."
"Maybe for a sentence."
"Fair trade."
They stood there, side by side, silence pressing softly between them. She could smell the cut grass, the faint trace of dirt and rain. The scoreboard lights caught the edge of his jaw; when he turned toward her, his expression was unreadable, halfway between fatigue and something gentler.
"Thanks for coming," he said again, quieter now.
"Thanks for letting me."
He laughed under his breath. "Letting you? You always sound like you need permission."
"I'm used to rules."
He shook his head. "Break one sometimes."
She met his gaze. "You first."
He smiled, the kind of smile that wasn't for cameras. "Already did."
They didn't move closer—there were boundaries still—but the air between them felt charged, like static before a storm. She wanted to ask what he meant, but she already knew.
A security guard called from the far tunnel, his flashlight bobbing. "Five minutes, Soto!"
"Sí, señor," he called back, then turned to her. "That's my cue."
She nodded. "I'll go."
He hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket—a baseball, scuffed and faintly grass-stained. "Here. Last one I touched tonight."
She blinked. "You don't have to—"
"I want to."
She took it carefully, the leather cool against her palm. "I'm not catching it."
"You already did," he said.
Before she could answer, another voice shouted from the tunnel. He started walking backward toward it, still watching her.
"Want a ride home?" he asked suddenly.
She blinked. "I can take the train."
"It's late."
"I've done later."
He smiled. "Come on. Let me drive you. It'll make me feel useful."
She hesitated, looking at him. "You even drive yourself?"
"Sometimes. Tonight I do."
He started toward the tunnel, not waiting for an answer. She followed.
The service corridors smelled of detergent and damp concrete. He walked ahead, hand brushing the wall as if counting steps. Near the exit, he glanced back. "You're quiet."
"You just hit a home run. I'm trying not to sound impressed."
He laughed. "You're failing."
"Probably."
They stepped outside. The air was colder than she expected; her breath fogged slightly. A black SUV idled near the curb. He opened the passenger door and waited.
"This feels like a bad idea," she said.
"Only if you don't get in."
She sighed and climbed in.
The city unfolded around them. Queens fading into the dark, bridges flashing silver, Manhattan rising ahead like a story she'd already read. He drove calmly, one hand on the wheel, music low, something soft in Spanish playing through the speakers.
"Do you always listen to your own playlist after games?" she asked.
"Helps me come down," he said. "Otherwise I just keep swinging in my head."
She smiled. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But tonight's better."
He stopped at a red light. The glow washed over his face. Warm, momentary. She watched him watching the road, his expression caught somewhere between focus and ease.
"Thanks for this," she said quietly.
He nodded. "Anytime."
They crossed the bridge, lights rippling on the river below. When they reached her street, he pulled to the curb, engine humming. Neither moved right away.
"You sure you don't want to go out somewhere?" he asked softly.
"It's almost midnight."
"So?"
She smiled. "I think this is enough."
He nodded, accepting it, though his eyes lingered on her a moment longer. "You'll text me when you get upstairs?"
"I will."
"Good."
She opened the door, cold air slipping in. Before she stepped out, he said, "Hey—"
She turned back.
"How about doing this again, soon?"
She laughed. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" he said, smiling. "Alright."
She shut the door, heart unsteady, and watched the car pull away until it was just another pair of headlights swallowed by the city.
Upstairs, she texted him one word.
Home.
He replied almost instantly.
Good. Sleep.
She typed, then deleted, then finally sent:
You too.
The phone screen dimmed. The apartment was silent except for the faint rush of traffic below. She set her bag down, pulled the blanket from the couch, and sat with it around her shoulders. The smell of grass still clung to her hair.
She closed her eyes and replayed the drive—the quiet streets, the radio hum, the simple fact of him behind the wheel. The night had felt suspended, impossible to explain, like the moment before the world decided what it would be.
She woke before the alarm, light already flattening against the blinds. For a moment she couldn't place the sound in her head—the engine, the low music, his voice. Then it all came back at once.
Coffee. Shower. Emails. Each task felt slightly out of tune, like a song played half a beat slow. She opened her laptop, tried to finish a paragraph for an unrelated story, and rewrote the same line five times.
At eight, her phone buzzed.
Morning.
You awake already? she typed.
Barely. But you beat me. I don't sleep well after games.
Still thinking about the home run?
Still thinking about the drive.
She read the message twice, then set the phone face-down beside her keyboard, pretending to ignore it. The cursor blinked. The apartment filled with the sound of a neighbor's radio and traffic below, ordinary life pushing in again.
Fifteen minutes later she picked the phone back up.
Next time I'll bring a jacket, by the way.
No dots appeared. Then:
Good. Or I'll bring one for you.
She smiled, shaking her head.
The rest of the morning unfolded in fragments. Calls, notes, another cup of coffee she didn't finish. Her editor wanted a rewrite on a piece due next week. She promised to send it tonight, knowing she wouldn't.
By noon she went out, walking aimlessly through the neighborhood—storefronts opening, dogs pulling their owners toward parks. The air was softer now, the first real hint of spring.
She cut through the small square near her apartment and sat on a bench, scrolling without focus.
Then in the evening, she met friends for dinner downtown. They talked over each other, loud with stories, wine, complaints about work. She laughed at the right moments, nodded, filled her glass, but her mind kept slipping elsewhere.
When she left, the night had that hazy warmth that makes the city feel almost kind. That night, she had chosen to walk instead of taking the train, crossing blocks that smelled of food carts and exhaust.
Her phone vibrated once more.
Still awake?
Walking home. I was out with some friends, didn't feel like driving tonight.
Send me a picture.
She hesitated, then lifted the phone and took one—blurry streetlights, her shadow stretching long on the pavement.
Looks peaceful, he wrote.
Wish I was there.
She typed me too but deleted it.
Long day? she sent instead.
Yeah. But better now.
She stopped at the corner near her building, the traffic light changing slowly above her.
You should sleep, she wrote.
After you say good night.
Her heart beat once, hard, before she replied:
Good night, Juan.
Buenas noches, writer.
The words glowed for a few seconds, then faded as the screen went dark.
Upstairs, she left the lights off. The window was open a crack; the city moved through it, cars on wet asphalt, someone laughing below.
She set her phone on the nightstand, turned the baseball in her hand, and tried to picture what tomorrow might feel like if she stopped pretending this was ordinary.
The thought stayed with her long after she fell asleep.
She changed her mind three times about what to wear.
First jeans and a sweater, then something neater, then back to the sweater again.
It wasn't a date. It was just dinner. At his place.
The city outside her window had already started turning silver, the kind of light that makes glass look soft. She stood in front of the mirror and told herself she looked fine. Normal. Like someone who'd been invited over by a friend.
Her phone buzzed.
Gate code's 2014. Elevator goes straight up.
She stared at the message for a while before typing back.
On my way.
She packed lightly —wallet, phone, charger. The ride across town was quiet. The driver barely spoke. She watched the skyline through the window, lights starting to blink awake. Somewhere out there, he was finishing whatever routine athletes kept after a long day: recovery, stretching, a phone call in Spanish to his mother. She wondered if he'd been nervous texting her, or if this was just easy for him.
When the car slowed in front of the building, she looked up. It was exactly what she expected—new glass, dark metal, too clean. A doorman greeted her by name, which surprised her, then pressed the elevator button for her.
The elevator rose quickly, humming in that expensive way silence hums. At the top floor, the doors opened onto a short hallway and one apartment door, slightly ajar.
She knocked anyway.
He appeared almost instantly, barefoot, wearing a black T-shirt, hair damp. He looked more real than he ever did on the field.
"Hey," he said, smiling. "You found it."
"Hard to miss."
"Come in."
She stepped inside. The place was larger than she'd imagined. Wide windows, gray furniture, framed photos she suspected had been chosen by someone else. Everything was in order, but not lived-in.
"It's beautiful," she said.
He shrugged. "It's quiet."
There was music playing low from a speaker somewhere—guitar, slow rhythm, the kind of song you don't need to know to feel. He motioned toward the couch.
"You want something to drink?"
"Water's fine."
He poured two glasses from a tall bottle on the counter and brought one over. She noticed how his movements slowed down here, no crowd, no cameras, just him.
"Nice place," she said, trying to sound casual.
"Too big," he replied. "Doesn't smell like anything. You know? Home's supposed to smell like food or rain or something."
She smiled faintly. "That's oddly poetic for a baseball player."
"Maybe I've been around the right writer."
They sat at opposite ends of the couch at first. The glass coffee table between them reflected the city lights. She traced a line on the condensation of her water glass, waiting for him to start.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You ever get tired of people reading you?"
She looked up. "All the time. Why?"
He shrugged. "Because I'm starting to understand what that feels like. Reporters, fans, even my friends. Everyone thinks they already know what I'll say."
"You signed the biggest contract in baseball," she said. "You became public property."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's the problem. It's like you stop belonging to yourself." The sentence hung there. She wanted to answer, but it felt wrong to fill the silence.
The song on the speaker changed; a softer guitar, something old. She recognized it instantly by the singer's voice —It was 'En la Ciudad de Furia' by Gustavo Cerati.
Finally she said, "It's strange. Everyone wants to be seen until it happens. Then you want to hide."
He nodded slowly. "Exactly."
They stayed quiet again. The city outside the window pulsed faintly, red and white lights moving in slow rhythm.
"You look tired," she said.
"Season just started and I already feel like I'm catching up." He smiled lightly. "by the way, I wanted to ask you something."
She waited.
"You ever think about what happens if someone finds out we talk?" He asked.
The question startled her. "We're talking, not—" she stopped. "Why would anyone care?"
He tilted his head. "They would. They care about everything. Photos, names, timing. People build stories faster than we can breathe."
She looked at him, the sharp edges of his face softened by lamplight. "You think this is a story?"
He exhaled. "I think it could become one." Her heart skipped a beat.
She set the glass down. "Well, no one really has to know anything about your private life." She said. "We can be careful."
"Can we?" he asked quietly.
The question felt heavier than it should have.
She thought about the stadium lights, the cameras sweeping the crowd, the way he'd looked at her after the home run. "Maybe not forever," she said. "But tonight, yes."
He looked relieved and a little sad. "I like tonight."
"So do I."
The silence after that felt different—no longer awkward, just present. She noticed the way the light caught the curve of the glass on the table, the faint hum of the city through the window.
He leaned back. "You hungry? I ordered something before you came."
She laughed softly. "You assumed I'd say yes?"
"I hoped."
"What is it?"
"Something simple. Pasta. I don't cook."
She smiled. "That's still food."
He stood, walking toward the kitchen. "Good. Because I burned the first batch."
She watched him move, still graceful even when he wasn't performing. For the first time since she'd arrived, she let herself breathe.
He came back carrying two bowls and the smell of olive oil and garlic, simple and clean. He set them down on the low table, handed her a fork.
"Don't judge," he said.
"I wouldn't dare."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The food was better than she expected—slightly overcooked but comforting. He leaned back with a sigh when he finished, stretching his legs out.
"See? Edible," he said.
"Barely," she teased.
He laughed, head tipped back. The sound eased something in the room.
Then he said, quieter, "I like this."
She thought about it. "Me too. I think I never expected to talk to you after our interview."
They both laughed softly, almost at the same time.
He looked at her then, steady. "Well... Sometimes I think I only talk like this with you."
She smiled. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not. It just makes me wonder what happens next."
"Nothing has to happen," she said. "We can just—talk."
"Maybe. But I don't always want to just talk."
The sentence hung there, quiet but heavy. She didn't look away, and neither did he. For a few seconds, the air changed. The same electricity as under the stadium lights, only slower, deeper.
His eyes lingered on her face, while she simply thought of the many ways to properly reply. After a while, there wasn't anything she could tell him other than she also wanted to do more than just talking.
Then he broke eye contact, stood, carried the dishes to the sink. The spell eased but didn't vanish.
She heard water running, the clatter of plates. "You don't have to clean up right now," she called.
"I know," he said. "It gives me something to do."
She smiled faintly, unsure what to do with her hands.
When he came back, he was calmer. "You want dessert? There's ice cream."
She laughed quietly. "You're very domestic tonight."
"I'm trying to distract myself."
"From what?"
He hesitated, then said, "From thinking too much about tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Every day feels like tomorrow. There's always another game, another camera, another way to disappoint someone who thinks they own a piece of you."
She set her glass down. "That sounds impossible."
"It's not impossible," he said. "Just tiring."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed for a second. "Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to play without anyone watching. Just the sound of the bat, no noise."
She thought about the first time she'd seen him under the Bowery lights, smiling for a camera. "You'd hate it," she said gently.
He looked up. "Why?"
"Because you love the noise. You just don't want it to drown you."
That made him laugh, soft and brief. "Maybe you should be my therapist."
"Too expensive," she said, smiling.
He stepped closer, not enough to be near but close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne, something clean and unfamiliar.
They stood there a long moment, not talking. Then he said, barely above a whisper, "Sometimes I think you see me too clearly."
She smiled, a little sad. "That's how I know it's real."
The words seemed to stay in the air between them, fragile and steady.
He reached past her, switched off the speaker. The apartment went quiet except for the hum of the city.
"I know you should probably go before I start complaining about tomorrow again," he said, voice lighter. "But I also don't want you to."
She chuckled. "Well, I can stay a bit more." Her thumb slightly brushed against his cheek as they stood.
"I like you." He said almost in a whisper. She smiled shyly. "What?"
"I could tell you wanted to say that a few minutes ago." She smiled. "Which is funny, because I like you too."
"Oh." He looked at her.
Before she could say something, he kissed her on the lips. It was unexpected like the way he said he liked her, but also the one thing she had been longing for since she first caught him looking at her as they ate.
They sat back on the sofa as they kissed. She remembered one of her friends saying making out was much more personal than sex, and for that moment she believed it to be true.
His touch all over her body made her want him in ways she had never considered about anyone else before.
He lead her upstairs. Although he didn't ask, she also didn't need to tell him anything when her body was already speaking for her.
His room was barely lit up as they walked in. When they laid on the bed, his hands were quick to discard her sweater while she helped him take off his t-shirt.
His chain hit her a few times, which made her laugh until he stopped.
"Here." He said taking it off. "So it doesn't bother you." He added as he put it around her neck instead.
She was speechless. It was, perhaps, the hottest thing someone had ever done for her.
She kissed him back as he undid her bra. Every touch felt better than the previous. His lips felt like butter on her skin while her hands were wrapped around his back.
"You're fucking perfect." He said kissing her stomach.
"There is no such thing as perfection." she said chuckling as he helped her take off her pants.
"Lies, miss writer." He added as he kissed her legs.
Every touch felt calculated, measured. Her soft moans echoed through the bedroom as he ran his fingers over her entrance.
She couldn't remember the last time she was intimate with a man. It felt like ages that anyone made her feel that way, not that she kept track of it, anyways... but a woman knows when a man provides the right type of pleasure.
"Oh my..." She cried out as his movements were faster.
His accent came out thicker as he spoke softly to her ear, "I've thought of you every day since the first time I saw you."
"Am I that memorable?"
"You might as well be the most memorable face I've seen." He added as his thumb rubbed against her clit, making her throw her head back in frustration.
"I need you inside." She said in a shaky breath. "Please."
"I can tell by how wet you are." He said leaving a wet kiss on her entrance. "I want you on top." He said lowly to her ear, as if he was asking something forbidden.
He helped her out by effortlessly flipping her to be on top. She was a bit taken aback by the way she was exposed to him, not because she didn't want it but rather due to the way everything had unfolded up until that point.
"It's okay." He assured her with a smile. "I love the view" He added chuckling.
She helped him take off his boxer, stroking his erected member softly. Juan was already as hard as he could be after kissing every inch of her body.
His hands grasped her hips as she took all of him inside. Her groans became softer as the pleasure kicked her in.
She moved slowly while her hands were on his shoulders for support. For a moment, their eyes locked in and in that instant, he swore he was in heaven.
He was pulled back into the moment as she rocked her hips against him. Her shaky breaths becoming more and more loud as the evening unfolded in a way he could've never predicted.
It was past midnight, and he had begged her to stay the night. His arms wrapped around her waist while he whispered sweet nothings into her ear.
Eventually, she got up to get dressed but, naturally, she wished she could just stay in bed with him.
"I wish I could, but I have to meet for lunch with one of the editors from our london office." She said.
"I can drive you in the morning, don't worry." He assured.
"You've got an off day, rest." At the door, she turned. "You could call. If it gets too loud."
He nodded once. "I might." He gave her a tender kiss before she stepped into the elevator.
The elevator doors closed on her reflection. A faint outline, half light, half shadow. Outside, the air felt thinner, like she'd stepped out of another kind of weather. She walked the short block to where the driver waited, the sound of her shoes small against the pavement. When she closed the car door, the city folded back around her—traffic, horns, a fragment of music from somewhere above.
The driver asked for her address. She gave it automatically, then sat back, watching the skyline retreat. She replayed pieces of the night: his apartment too perfect, the way he'd said you see me too clearly.
She tried to decide if that was good or dangerous.
Halfway over the bridge her phone buzzed.
You home yet?
Not yet.
Didn't mean to make this night long.
She typed back.
It was perfect.
I feel the same way as you. I like you a lot.
She smiled faintly. She chose not to reply. She turned the screen face-down and looked out at the river, black glass streaked with light.
When she reached her building she stood on the sidewalk a moment, unsure whether to text home like she always did.
The phone buzzed again first.
I'm glad you came.
She leaned against the cold railing outside her door.
Me too. I like you a lot as well.
You make the noise quieter.
The words landed the same way they had in his apartment. Simple, disarming. She didn't answer. She wanted to keep them whole, unsaid on her end.
Upstairs, the apartment felt smaller than usual. She dropped her bag on the couch and went straight to the window. The night moved slowly outside, long lines of cars, a siren somewhere distant.
After a few more minutes, she felt tired so she went to her bedroom, washed off all her makeup and threw on a large t-shirt to go to bed.
It was weird; she really needed to sleep, but thinking about him made her stay awake as she kept replaying the memories from earlier hours.
